Yet To Despair
by Aylis Farren
Summary: Frodo falls to hurting himself. Pre-quest.
1. Echoes of Laughter

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own these characters in ANY respect WHAT-SO-EVER! They belong to the mighty and talented Professor J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings". 

  
  


A/N: As the summary might have bidden you, this story has to do with the grief and torture of self-abuse (self harm, self mutilation, etc.) Just for the record I do know what I'm talking about, as I'm a sufferer of it myself. And as always: You be nice, No be meanie; You no likey, You no readie! This is a *trial* idea and if I get good reviews, I'll continue with it, but I've got to warn you, it starts out slow, hence this is a story, not an essay. But not TOO slow, and certainly (well...hopefully) not boring. Like I said, if this is reading material you DON'T approve of, then don't read this. I know that I'm no Tolkien, so don't be angry with my usage of his characters. If it's really THAT bad of a story, then constructive criticism will certainly be accepted and respected. Flaming really doesn't help anyone. Also according to the story I'd like to tell you that this first chapter is sort of a prelude, because Frodo is not 12 throughout the whole story. Anyways, enjoy! And please review, as I need reviews before I know if I'm wasting my time continuing. 

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Chapter One: Echoes of Laughter

  
  


Primula Baggins gently stroked the thick curly locks of hair away from her son, Frodo's, brow with a soft smile about her face. The cool October draft had settled in the corridors of Brandy Hall once again, leaving poor Frodo with a mild case of sniffles. She gently put an extra blanket over her son's body and sat up, slowly as not to wake him. With a wave of her hand and a small puff she blew out the candle that stood on his bedstand; which was almost burned down to the bottom because she had been trying to lull him to sleep for so many long hours. She made her way out of his room, closing the door softly behind her; and made her way down the the hallway to the apartment room that she shared with her husband, Drogo.

  
  


"Finally got him to sleep?" asked Drogo with a kind grin on his face as Primula entered.

  
  


"Yes, he's sleeping. Poor lad just had some what of a mild cold. I've no doubt it'll pass before the end of the week." She smiled and looked at him as she locked the door. "I think we ought get to bed too! It's late and tomorrow is..." she was cut off by Drogo, who had already stood up, and taken her into his arms.

  
  


"Ah, yes. Yes, I know. Our anniversary."

  
  


"Do you have the boat ready?"

  
  


"Yes, it's fastened by the dock outside. I doubt any of these people would go near it," he chuckled, "as they're all dead afraid of the water."

  
  


Primula smiled and gave him a light punch on the shoulder "Oh, now Drogo don't joke like that!" They both smiled.

  
  


"Well," started Drogo after a long pause "we'd best be off to bed! I'm tired, as I'm sure you are too." They both smiled and laughed softly, their echoes of laughter ringing softly about the room.

  
  


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Of course I'm going to give more to judge on than that! lol...next page. By the way, some of these chapters may be extremely short, whilst others will be very long. :) I'm tired though, so I'll have Chapter 2 up some other time this week.


	2. Leaving Loved Ones with Loved Words

A/N: I am going to continue my story. I would like to thank all the people who contributed reviews to the first chapter of this thing, and didn't flame me. lol! You're thoughts are appreciated. This is rated PG-13 (for later scenes) and not R because I think that you all are intelligent enough to decide weather it's appropriate reading material for yourselves or not. Once again: You be nice, no be meanie; You no likey, you no ready! And if this be of any comfort to you, the story does get better :) Once again, I do not own these characters.   
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Chapter 2-Leaving Loved Ones with Loved Words   
  
Young Frodo's deep blue eyes slowly fluttered open, unaccustomed to their first sight of the day being the late afternoon sun. It must've been around three in the afternoon. Had he slept in? "Oh no, I hope Mama doesn't get mad..." Frodo stammered his thoughts aloud as he jumped out of bed and grabbed the nearest pair of trousers. The reason for rush? Well, today was his parents anniversary, and his Uncle Bilbo was coming all the way from Hobbiton. Bilbo had always been his favorite Uncle; likewise for Bilbo. For some reason Frodo felt he could relate with Bilbo. All though they were cousins, the age difference had gotten Frodo used to calling him "uncle". And with a flash, he was out the door and racing down the hallway.   
  
"Whoa! Hold up there young lad, where are you going so fast?" said a strangely familiar voice as a hand reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.   
  
"I-I'm sorry sir! I just woke up and was on--" he stopped short and looked up, and with an exclamation of joy, he leaped into the arms of the stranger. For it was no stranger, but his uncle.   
  
"Uncle Bilbo!!" cried Frodo, a wide grin on his face has he hung himself off the shoulders of his relative. He hugged him tightly and buried his face into the familiar smelling jacket. He always had loved the smell of Bag End.   
  
"Why yes Frodo!" said Bilbo, a bit taken aback by his nephew's sudden jolt of enthusiasm. "What are you doing? Getting up so late, why it's almost 3.30!" He chuckled and withdrew, admiring the deep eyes of Frodo.   
  
Frodo turned a light scarlet. "Well...I...I mean...that is..." he stammered, trying to think of something to say. Bilbo only smiled.   
  
"Ah, honestly it isn't any trouble Frodo," said Bilbo, putting his hand on Frodo's shoulder and leading him down the corridor.   
  
"Where's Mama and Papa?" enquired Frodo, breaking the silence.   
  
"They're still here. They wanted to see you before they left."   
  
"Left? Where are they going?"   
  
Bilbo smiled. "I suppose they didn't tell you? They've a boat for tonight and they're going out in it, just the two of them, mind, to spend some time together." For a moment, Bilbo looked as if he wished he had married, but it soon passed.   
  
"Boat!" exclaimed Frodo. "But Uncle Bilbo, why can't I go along??" he asked, almost as if pleading.   
  
Bilbo chuckled. "If you had a wife, Frodo, would you want me to tag along if you went out with her?"   
  
Frodo paused. The concept had not really crossed his mind. He finally let out an "ick!" at the thought. They both laughed, and soon they had approached the main rooms of Brandy Hall. And sure enough, there were Drogo and Primula.   
  
"Well! There's my son. I was beginning to wonder of one of Bilbo's trolls had gotten you!" said Drogo, smiling at Frodo and giving him hug. He stood up "Hullo Bilbo my friend, thank you for coming" he smiled and shook Bilbo's hand.   
  
"No problem. No problem at all," replied Bilbo. "Happy Anniversary!"   
  
"Mama!" interrupted Frodo, tugging Primula's skirt. "Can I come? Please? You're going to need someone to drive the boat, you know..." At this, Primula had to laugh. She knelt down to her son and grabbed him, giving him a soft tickle. The sound of Frodo's laughter rang about the room, certainly livening up the hearts of those around. He hugged his mother back and gave her a sincere kiss on the cheek.   
  
"I love you, Mama" he smiled and hugged her.   
  
"I love you too, Frodo my dear. Behave now, for your Uncle Bilbo, and I'll see you tonight!" They both smiled and withdrew. After giving his father a hug and "I love you" as well, Frodo Baggins watched as his parents, Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck, walked out the doors to Brandy Hall for the last time.   
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A/N: I know it's going slow! I'm sorry sorry sorry! But I swear it'll get better, if not sincerely gruesome (well, ya know...) Please don't give up on me! This is my first fic in a while. If you have an ideas or suggestions, I'd be more than happy to hear them. :)   



	3. Storms

Disclaimer: hah! Do I look intelligent enough to own these people?   
  
A/N: Thanks again everyone for reviews!!! :) I just wanted to inform you all that the chapters when Frodo is 12 are a prelude, not a flashback. I just want to avoid some later confusion that may arise. You shan't have to wait much longer for the good stuff, just sit tight! *gives you all a cookie and a pat* On with the show! And judging by reviews, most of you can see where this is going, so Lindsey (*speaking 3rd person*) will try and change the plot for your future enjoyment. :) Please forgive my terrible grammar skills, I don't want to imagine how unintelligent it makes me look. LOL :S   
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Chapter 3-Storms   
  
"...and THAT my lad, is how we escaped the lair of the Even King!" Bilbo was busy trying to entertain the seemingly restless Frodo. It was about 10.00 at night, and his parents had not returned. But Bilbo's gift of story telling seemed to be having it's toll on the little lad, as he let out a large yawn. Bilbo laughed. "Tired already, I can tell."   
  
"No, no Uncle Bilbo! Please don't stop, I want to hear-" he was cut off by some more yawning "-some more."   
  
"Now, now Frodo" said Bilbo with a smile. "It's late and you need to be off in bed. What would your mother say, should I have you up into all hours of the night? Come on now." he stood up, and offered a hand to little Frodo; who gladly accepted.   
  
"Uncle Bilbo?"   
  
"Yes lad?"   
  
"Will you..." he seemed to blush, "Will you tuck me in?"   
  
Bilbo smiled at the young boys innocense. "Why, of course I will." Frodo let out another yawn and began to waver. Without a word, Bilbo gently took him up into his arms, as a mother holds her baby, and brought him to his room. He nestled the small hobbit into the covers, and gently landed a light kiss on his brow. "Good night, Frodo." He smiled and quietly went out the door.   
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"Come on...you...blasted...ack!" There was a loud thump as Drogo Baggins landed bum-first into the small wooden boat he had gotten for him and his wife, Primula's, anniversary "outing". The rope that held the boat to the dock seemed to be in an extremely obstinate knot.   
  
Primula couldn't help but laugh as she carefully climbed in as well. "Oh, Drogo, do be careful! I don't want to have to carry you in because you've a bruised bum!"   
  
Drogo nodded, rubbing his bum, and then looking up as he gently took an oar and pushed off the dock into the calmly flowing river. After letting the boat float out for sometime, he turned to his wife. He was almost taken aback by the radiant blast of beauty that was bestowed upon her. He took her into his arms, and laid a soft kiss upon her lips. She returned this action.   
  
They spent hours upon hours in that boat. Just floating along, and enjoying each other's company. Around 8.00 (pm, FYI), Primula sat up.   
  
"Drogo? Where are we?" she asked, looking at their surroundings. Things had become a tad bit...odd looking. There was much more thorns, brambles, and weeds clouding the banks of the river, and the water was dark and a murky brown. Drogo sat up as well, this coming to his attention.   
  
"Don't worry, Prim. We probably just floated a bit far down the river. We'll just be a few hours late arriving home, that's all. But we should be heading back now. I don't want Bilbo fretting..." he grabbed an oar, and turned the boat around. To his dismay, he saw thickets of dark storm clouds--or what he could make of clouds in the twilightish sky--coming from the direction they were heading. If he wanted to escape the powers of the storm, he'd have to move quickly. He dipped the oar into the water, and began to row, when a sudden loud clap of thunder frightened him, causing him to drop the oar.   
  
Luckily, the water was still relatively calm, and the oar was afloat. Primula gasped and sighed, recovering from this as well. Drogo sighed too, and reached for the oar that was afloat in the water. All of a sudden, he let out a terrible howl of pain.   
  
"Drogo!" yelled Primula. "Drogo, what happened? Are you alright!?" She carefully crawled to the other side of the boat where her husband lay, clutching his hand. "Drogo?" she asked in a softer tone.   
  
Drogo sat hunched over, still clutching his hand. "Please, Drogo, let me see..." she gently grabbed his wrist, and drew his hand into the open where she could see. Drogo had received quite a nasty snake-bite in the hand. "Oh no...Drogo!" She looked at her husband, who was slightly dazed, but still conscious. She looked back down at his hand, and horror came into her mind. Those weren't teeth marks of a snake (a/n: God, I'm stupid. Do snakes even have teeth?)--but the fangs of one. Fangs only meant one thing to her: venom. "Oh no, Drogo. Drogo, listen to me, I'm going to take us back to Brandy Hall, alright?" She received a light nod from her husband. "Good. Yes, I'm going to take us back and we're going to have your hand fixed up. You'll be fine, Drogo, fine, I promise." She tried to hold back her tears.   
  
Primula grabbed the oar and began to row as fast as she could back to Brandy Hall. Some twenty minutes later, some familiar sites began to come back into vision. She felt a bit relieved, but still had a ways to go. And just with her luck, the raindrops began to fall. Not light, but heaving and stinging. Drogo began to groan, the wetness and coldness making him feel more miserable, not to mention that with every heartbeat, the venom went more through his body. Primula finally let her silent tears loose. She made sure they were kept silent, as she did not want to upset Drogo. But she was slowly losing hope. Her thoughts were broken as the river was starting to become disturbed by the storm. Water lapped up and over the rim of the boat, making it hard for her to control it by herself.   
  
She knew it was over, there was no way she could go on. But she had to try. There was only one thought left that made her keep on trying. Her little son, Frodo. She couldn't give up and just leave Frodo. She began to think about how much she loved him, and how much he meant to her. She knew he was different from the other lads; but that never even crossed her mind. In fact, she loved him even more for it. Tears ran quicker down her cheeks as she tried to bear the thought of the those beautiful blue eyes of her little boy filled with tears. Who deserved such a loss at a young age like that? And before she could do anymore about it, a violent gust of wind knocked the oar straight out of her hand. It was over.   
  
She knelt down by Drogo and whispered in his ear: "Drogo Baggins, I love you...I love you." She buried her eyes in the cavern between his shoulder and neck. There was no pulse. He was dead. She sobbed loudly, but knew it was her turn next. "I love you.." she repeated, and laid down next to him, folding her arms around him. The next gust of wind was an extremely violent one, and it sent a large wave crashing over the side of the boat. Primula looked at the sky "I love you Frodo, my son, always and forever. Do not forget me, as I will be with you, always..." and with those words, the boat was overturned by another harsh gust, and she and her husband were cast into the water.   
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A/N: Pretty pathetic, as I am crying. *gives out tissues to anyone else who may be* Fwodo! ;_; More to come, just keep on reading, we'll get there...soon...enough...*passes out* 


	4. Forever Broken

Disclaimer: I do NOT own these characters :)  
  


A/N: Alrights people, I'm sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry about the earlier version of this chapter. It is always late at night when I write (because I don't have time otherwise :( ) so I guess I wasn't thinking about the anachronisms I put in there. Anyways, here is the revised edition. You guys didn't make me feel bad, so don't worry. Thanks for letting me know. :) Because one learns from one's mistakes, right? They do have clocks though. Recall the movie. After Gandalf's questioning of the Ring's where-abouts, Bilbo replied "Yes, yes it is over there, by the clock on the mantelpiece." Anyway, here go. Once again, if you are clueless as to this note, then just ignore it. ;)

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Chapter 4-Forever Broken   
  
Bilbo Baggins awoke around 3.00 am to the sound of bustle on the floors below. "What in the Shire..." he began to wonder, as he yawned and stood up. He had fallen asleep in a chair in his room; reading as usual. He rubbed his eyes, catching a glimpse of the time. "Three o'clock!? What in the heavens are these people doing awake?" He decided to go and see. He carefully slipped out of his room, and made his way down the corridor-very quietly; in the direction where the noise was coming from.   
  
He looked around. Several of the older hobbit men were congregating. He couldn't hear much over their hushed talk, but made out the few words "search party" and "boat". Then a certain and horrible thought stuck out in his mind. Drogo and Primula? Where were they? He searched the room with his eyes, and as he suspected, found no trace of them.   
  
His search was broken by the sound of quiet sobbing. It was Esmeralda Took and her friend Daisy Harfoot. He made his way over and sat down. "Esmeralda? Whatever is the matter? Why are you crying, and what is going on!?"   
  
She looked up at him "B-Bilbo. There was a terrible storm right along the river a few hours ago, and Drogo and P-Primula haven't returned. We're terribly worried, and we are trying to get a search party together," she broke down in sobs now, "I think...I mean we...we think something happened to them."   
  
Bilbo sat aghast. How could this happen? He had only spoken with them around twelve hours before. He couldn't believe this. His train of thought was interrupted by an old hobbit from the gathering search party. "Pardon me, Master Baggins, but as you probably know, Drogo and Primula Baggins are...well missing. We're starting a search party, and we need one more person. I know it's late...but do you think you could, sir?"   
  
Bilbo did not hesitate to answers. "Yes, yes of course." The older hobbit smiled grimly, and handed Bilbo a coat and a candle.   
  
The search company slowly made their ways out-of-doors. It was still very early, perhaps a half past three in the morning. It didn't seem like it though, everyone was too distraught to even feel tired. Things went pretty much the same all night. They walked along the edge of the river, and some waded in the shallow parts. If you were far off, all you could see would be the glowing of small candles. Bilbo shivered, the wet atmosphere of the earlier storm had not worn off, and there was dew drops everywhere, being flung up by the feet of the other hobbits as they walked.   
  
"Hoy!" came a voice. "Hoy! Over here! I think I found something!" Sure enough, he did. Bilbo and the few others around him shone their candles in his direction. There were two lumps afloat in the water. They seemed to be clad in something, but it was hard to tell, since they were totally draped in mud. The hobbit who had discovered them began to heave one out of the water, beckoning for aid. The others went, although they were reluctant to see. In what seemed like forever, the two wads of mud were in fact not mud, but the bodies of Drogo and Primula Baggins. Bilbo stood heartbroken. Tears welled up in his eyes, and rode down his checks.   
  
"Oh no..." said one of the other hobbits. "Someone go inform the others at Brandy Hall--that Drogo and Primula are," he gulped sadly, holding back tears "dead." One of the younger lads began a dash back to tell the others, he ran, because he could not bear to see anymore. Bilbo and the others remaining were forced to drag the bodies a little more inland. At length they stopped, about 30 yards from the river. They laid the bodies straight out on the grass.   
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Frodo awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was still dark out. He looked at the clock on his bedstand. The hands were on the Roman numeral IV. "Hmm...four?" he thought. Soon he was distracted by the sounds of hysterics and crying. This alarmed him, and he became terribly frightened. He immediately ran out the door and down the hallway to his parents room. He opened their door and ran in "Mama! Mama! I'm scared!" He jumped into the bed to cuddle up to his mother, but found to his own horror that she was not there. "Mama? Papa?" He stood up, a bit shocked.   
  
Frodo thought for a moment. They were in the main room of Brandy Hall, with the others. They had to be. He grabbed a fresh shirt and trousers that his mother had ironed for him the day before, and left their room as quickly as he had come. He stopped as he reached all the commotion, and searched the room. His eyes widened, and a fear engulfed his heart. They weren't there. He made sure none of his aunts saw him as he snuck past them and out the doors.   
  
What he saw next was something he'll never forget. There were a group of older hobbits huddled about each other. It was dark, and wet, he noted as curiosity got the best of him. He made his way forward and stood behind two of the hobbits, unnoticed in the commotion and dark. He peeked through the circle, and his eyes went wide. Was that his parents, lying there still and unmoving? "MAMA! PAPA!" he screamed and pushed through the two hobbits in his way, sobbing madly.   
  
"Frodo!" exclaimed some of the hobbits. Others looked away from this site, it was too much for them. Bilbo was absolutely heartbroken, seeing the young boy like this now. Not anymore a young lad, but an orphan.   
  
Frodo beat his fist on the ground, crying and cursing what had happened. Bilbo bent down next to him, pulling him upwards and holding him close. "Shh, Frodo my lad, I'm sorry--" he was interrupted by hysterical sobbing "--shh, so sorry." Frodo didn't seem to care. It was all so unfair. What had he done to deserve this? He struggled to get free.   
  
"Let go! Let go of me!" he sobbed. "I want to be alone! Go away! ALONE!" Bilbo only held him tighter, knowing that letting him go was the worst thing to do. But Frodo soon had become too much for him. With a sudden jerk, Frodo became free, and dashed off wildy in the other direction. Where exactly was he going? He didn't know, and he really didn't care.   
  
Shouts of panic arose from the group of hobbits. "Frodo! Frodo Baggins you come back here!!" they shouted. Bilbo was just torn in two.   
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Frodo ran deep into the surrounding woods until he could go no more. He retired on an old log, and buried his face into his shivering hands. He sobbed deeply for hours and hours on end. Why had this happened? This certainly was not fair. He didn't deserve this.   
  


"Oh Mama and Papa," he said, amidst his tears and sobbing. "I l-loved you! W-Why didn't you let me come too? I want to be with you! I miss you!" he cried. "I l-l-love you more than a-anything. Now I'm alone. W-Why o, why did I not go too?" He questioned himself.   
  
After a moment he stood up, still weeping inconsolably. He wandered around for a moment. Anything was better than going back. He walked on some more, when his vest got caught in something. It was a large bush of thornes. He struggled to get his clothing free, and then examined the thorn that had snagged him. Soon enough, a thought hit him.   
  
He gently broke off one of the dirty pieces of thorn. Looking around, he saw a puddle from the rainstorm earlier. He went over, and began to wash it. Why? He wasn't quite sure, perhaps just something to do. Suddenly an impulse had him, and his the hand that held the throne suddenly raced across the tip of his finger. He watched as the blood, mixed with water, trickled down his finger and onto his hand and wrist. He smiled inwardly, for he seemed to feel a lot better. Isn't this what he deserved? Pain? After all, he had let his parents go. His eyes were still full of tears, and his heart would always be full of grief. Little did he know, he matured a lot within those few moments. 

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	5. Wounded

Disclaimer: Own LOTR? Hahah...  
  


A/N: So sorry I haven't updated! I hope you guys haven't abandoned me...Anyways, chapter 5! I'd like to mention priorly that I have lost 78.43658364% of my geographical knowledge of The Shire, so please, forgive me, should I make errors. By the way, my computer is screwed, and won't indent my paragraphs when I upload. ^_^ I'm not as stupid as I look! :P

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Chapter 5-Wounded  
  


"Frodo!" came the loud, yet cheerful call from the kitchen of Bag End. It was some nine years since the death of Primula and Drogo, and Frodo had gone off to live with Bilbo; becoming his heir and all.  
  


Frodo opened his eyes, "Yes? Yes, coming Uncle Bilbo..." he managed to mumble through sleep. He got up and stretched, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't late, but not early either. He got out of bed and went over to a large, wooden dresser across the room. He pulled open a drawer, and rummaged through to find a casual tunic, smiling at his selection of a simple white one.   
  


He went to take off his night shirt. But was reluctant; for as he lifted it, he frowned sadly at his left and right arms, both of them covered with occasional gashes, and many, many cuts. Not deep, but plentiful. He quickly changed his tunic, having no more desire to look upon the creature he loathed so much; himself.   
  


He walked down the hallway as he buttoned up his vest. As he came down the hallway, his uncle greeted him with a smile. "Hullo! And good morning, Frodo. Breakfast is ready, come along now." Frodo smiled and nodded, following Bilbo into the kitchen, and sitting down.   
  


"It looks delicious, Bilbo!" exclaimed Frodo, putting on his usual face of happiness as he often did; not to worry his uncle. Bilbo smiled to himself. Frodo had only been living with him for a few months, and it seemed to him that his nephew was making a great deal of improvement. He hadn't seen him cry as often, and certainly not break down in hysterics. He was beginning to think Frodo had mended, but how very, very wrong he was.   
  


Breakfast passed in silence. Frodo hardly ever spoke any more; he only indulged in his own thoughts, which he would not share with anyone, not even his Bilbo.  
  


"Have you any plans made for today, Frodo?" asked Bilbo, hoping that maybe he and his nephew could have some time to talk.  
  


"Actually, Uncle Bilbo, I have. You see I wanted to go out today and perhaps help about town."

Help about town? He had no such intention. He only wished to escape, and to be alone. His poor uncle had been so kind to take him in, he didn't want Bilbo to see him, and what he really had planned for that day.   
  


Bilbo smiled. "Yes, of course Frodo. That's quite alright. I've some translations to tend to. Be off now!" he smiled, "and please don't be too late in returning."   
  


Frodo smiled, grabbed his coat, and went out the door. He inhaled the cool and crisp autumn air, letting it fill his lungs. He made his way for the same place he went everyday. There was a little piece of thin woods around the outskirts of the Bridge. It wasn't a far walk, and Frodo was quite fit for his own age. He crossed the bridge and came upon the woods, and went a little into. As I have stated, it wasn't a thick wood, but rather thin, and pleasent. He approached a silent stream that came off the river, and sat down on nearby log. He sighed and stared at his reflection, a bit of anger arousing in him.  
  


"Who are you? And what do you think you're staring at? Is there something to see?" he stopped, realizing he was talking to himself. And before he knew it, he was fighting-with himself. The water heavily reminded him of a giant of his past, another river which he knew all too well. His lower and more acceding half's eyes pricked with tears.  
  


"It's not my fault."  
  


"Yes, yes Frodo you old fool it is. Why did you let them go? Why did you not play ill or so?"  
  


"No, that would not have been right. It was their anniversary, and they deserved some time by themselves than having to deal with some conceited hobbit brat child."   
  


"Yes, well if you had thought twice, you old Tom-fool, then maybe you wouldn't be an orphan. Bilbo probably only feels sorry for you."  
  


"Then, if so, why would he take me on as his heir?"  
  


"What an abominable question, Frodo Baggins! He merely detest the Sackville-Bagginses more than you, and wanted an heir to keep them away from his precious Bag End. It has nothing to do with you."  
  


"No, that isn't true."  
  


"Is it?"  
  


Frodo questioned himself on that last remark, then he paused. The tears that pricked his eyes came forth now in abundance. He was arguing with himself! How ridiculous! He sank to his knees and put his hand in his pocket. Soon he began to feel totally out-of-grips with himself. He felt numb and disassociated. He drew from his pocket a sharp blade. He couldn't quite recall where he got it, or if he had just found it somewhere. All he remembered was the relief it gave him, and how he was a slave to it.   
  


"Yes, yes please..." he said. Slowly he began to unbutton his tunic. His arms were already full. Full of hate for himself, reproach, remorse, and the pain that he couldn't get ride of; the scars of his heart. He took off his shirt and looked at his pale and clear skin. Where else? He took the blade and pressed it hard against his side, and then with a swift and hard movement, he pulled the blade up his ribs area. Blood came out slowly, at first. Little beads and welts. But as he ran over it a few times, it began to bleed steadily. He smiled. This was it. This was what he deserved. Wasn't it? He had been the cause of death to the people he loved most! He sighed and buttoned up his shirt and vest, putting his coat on over it.   
  


He then remembered that Bilbo had wanted him home soon. He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been out, but decided he'd head back anyways. His side throbbed, and he clutched at it. He breathed heavily as he heaved himself to his feet. He could see his breath in the cold December air. Then something took him, a madness. For a moment it seemed that everything left him, and that the small trees in the wood were closing in on him. He began to run. Run away. Run away from the tiny stream he had been sitting by, just as he ran away from the river for so long.   
  


There was a sudden and harsh tug. The tail of his coat had gotten caught in an extra long tree limb. He was running so fast that the snag and yanked him backwards and onto his back. He gasped now, the cold air and exhilaration of the previous adrenaline rush was all coming back at him at once. Little black dots came before his eyes, and he had not the will to get up and move more. He clutched his side, and fainted0.

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A/N: Well there it is! I'll try to have chapter 6 up really really soon! ^_^ Please review!


	6. Fear of Discovery

I believe I stated my disclaimer enough in past chapters :)

  
  


A/N: I'm back to updating! Since exams are over and all. But now I need the will to over come this stupid case of writers block...blah! Well anyways...Scotland forever!

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It had been some hours that Frodo had lain in silence. His eyes soon fluttered open; the all too familiar sound of thunder and the soft patter of rain was amongst him. "Oh no..." he thought. What was the time? And was Bilbo worried? Dear Bilbo. Frodo struggled up to his feet, his hand plastered to his side. The blood, now that it had stopped flowing so profusely, had seeped through his tunic and vest, and even his coat, onto his hand. He frowned. 

  
  


"What a mess you've made!" he reproached himself. Taking one step, and a deep breath, he mused it was time to go back to Bag End. He found walking rather difficult. He supposed it was the fall on his back and the cut in his side that made it so. Sighing, he tried not to notice the pain, and continued to stumble along. 

  
  


His attention was drawn aside when he saw a young hobbit lad sleeping; his back against a tree. He smiled, it was Sam Gamgee, the gardener's son. Sam was probably around nine or ten years old, and was as nice a hobbit as you could wish to meet. He had a certain air of pure kindness and care about him. Frodo wondered what he would be doing out here. He approached Sam slowly, and gently shook his shoulder. "Sam? Sam lad, wake up..." he said softly.

  
  


"Huh? Oh! Hullo there, Mr. Frodo!" cried Sam, leaping to his feet. 

  
  


Frodo smiled. "Yes, hullo Sam. What are you doing out here? You'll catch a fever! Come on now, off home!"

  
  


"Actually, Mr. Frodo, I came out here to look for you. Begging your pardon, sir."

  
  


"Looking for me? Why?"

  
  


"Well I was in the garden with my Gaffer --doing my own business, mind-- And Mr. Bilbo came out. 'Hullo, Mr. Baggins' my Gaffer says to 'im. 'Why the worried look?'. And Mr. Bilbo said 'Well, I'm rather concerned of Frodo. I told him to be home shortly, and he hasn't returned. And what with the weather approaching I'm hoping nothing happened.' and I says to 'im, 'I'll go and look for Mr. Frodo, I'm done with me gardening' and well, sir, to make a long story short, that's why I'm here. But...I suppose I was a bit tired..." he blushed and shuffled his feet.

  
  


Frodo found it rather amusing. "No trouble at all, Sam. Come along, your Gaffer is probably very worried of you! We'd better be on our way home." He smiled and began to make his way back, hiding as best he could the pain from Sam; and making sure that the young hobbit stood on the opposite side of the blood stains on his jacket. Sam, of course, plodded along, happy in the presence of the amazing Mr. Frodo.

  
  


The rain increased, sharp pelts of stinging rain began to drench the two hobbits. Frodo felt as if he was being shot in the side by several arrows. Sam tried to keep up with Frodo. After a moment, the pain became too much, and Frodo fell to his knees, hunched over and clutching at his side. Why had he cut so deeply? He gave a stifled cry; trying to conceal the pain from the innocent Sam.

  
  


But it was impossible for Sam not to notice Frodo's grief. He stopped running, and mad his way as quickly as he could back to Frodo's side, despite the loudness of the storm and the beating rain. "Mr. Frodo, sir, are you alright?" he put a hand on Frodo's back.

  
  


"Yes, yes Sam I'm quite fine. I just want to stay here, alright? You go on." He replied, not moving from his position.

  
  


"But Mr. Frodo..." said Sam, who couldn't believe what he had heard. He couldn't just...leave him? It was then when the keen hobbit's eyes scanned over the bloodstain on Frodo's side. "Mr. Frodo, you're bleeding!" he exclaimed, and knelt down, gently running his fingers along the long line of blood that went straight up and down Frodo's side. "Oh dear, I need to get you out of the rain, Mr. Frodo. It isn't well that you should be out here, like this and all." He took one of Frodo's arms and helped him up.

  
  


Frodo panicked. Had he been discovered? He quickly came to himself, his strength seemed to return in vigor. He swiftly thought of a false tale to tell Sam. "Yes Sam, I was in one of these trees, and was caught off guard by the singing of the birds-most lulling! And well, I turned to look at the lovely creatures when I lost my balance and fell." 

  
  


"Oh, Mr. Frodo! It must hurt you terribly." said Sam in shock. "We'd better get home right quick."

  
  


"Of course, and Sam? Don't say anything of this, it's worry Bilbo so much."

  
  


"Yes, Mr. Frodo, I won't." He smiled and took Frodo by the arm, leading him out of the woods and over the bridge, back to the Hill. Frodo saw Sam to his home, and then made his way back to Bag End. 

  
  


Frodo mused it was rather late evening, some where around 6.00. As he made his way up the path, there were broken tree limbs all over. "There must've been quite a storm out here." he mumbled. 

  
  


He approached the round green door of Bag End, and entered quietly. And, of course, dear Bilbo Baggins was pacing worriedly by the hearth of the fireplace. He glanced up upon the faint creak of the door, and looked at his nephew. "Frodo! Frodo, what happened, I thought you'd be back for elenvensies!" cried Bilbo, going quickly to his nephew. "You're soaking wet! Where in the Shire have you been?" 

  
  


"Oh, Uncle Bilbo, I'm sorry! I-I lost track of time. I fell asleep, you see."

  
  


"Frodo. Frodo please be careful. I do worry about you! Now go on and change your clothes. Supper will be ready soon and I don't want you coming ill!" he shooed Frodo down the hallway to his room. Frodo put a hand on his side, to hide the blood. He smiled and complied, going off. 

  
  


Bilbo couldn't help but notice that as Frodo walked down the hallway, he seemed to favor his side. "I wonder, tweens now-a-days..." he shook his head and followed Frodo quietly; for he had forgotten to ask his nephew what he wanted to drink with his supper. Frodo was already beginning to take off his wet tunic, and replace it, when Bilbo came in the room. Frodo turned around, stunned. He had lifted his shirt off of his middle, but still had yet to remove the tunic from his arms, to his relief. "Good heavens, Frodo!" cried Bilbo, looking at the large cut on Frodo's side. "What happened!?" 

  
  


"Bilbo! I-what are you doing in here? I'll be out shortly!" he stammered.

  
  


Bilbo went to Frodo and ran his fingers along the cut, which was still streaming out small beads of blood here and there. "Oh Frodo, that looks terrible. What happened?"

  
  


"I fell from a tree..." he managed to say, waiting for Bilbo to move so he could put his shirt wholly on again.

  
  


"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? Come now, Frodo my lad, we need to clean it up and have it looked at. I don't doubt it's already infected from exposure to the rain.

  
  


Frodo panicked again. "No! No it's alright, really it is. I can manage! Please!"

  
  


"Calm down, lad! Now come along with me." And before Frodo could protest, Bilbo gently took his nephew by the arm and led him down the hallway towards the bathroom. Frodo was frightened. What if his uncle made him remove his shirt? He would certainly notice the gashes and cuts all about his arms. Frodo feared the worst.


	7. Still Hidden

A/N: Okay people, I'm sorry. I really am. School has been such a pain in the butt. I've had so much homework, but I have been making an honest attempt to keep up. I hope you all haven't given up on me. I'm going to email the people of whom I think might've left. ;-) Good news (in a sense) A bunch of other stuff happened, causing me to go into a pretty bad relapse on cutting. L So hopefully I can pull some angst out on the story. God…I'm pissed. This chapter isn't too angsty, because it's been slowly "operated" on. Anyway, thanks for not giving up on me. 

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Chapter 7- Still Hidden

  
  


Frodo cringed as his uncle led him down the hall. 'He'll make me remove my shirt, of course...' he began to think. 'He'll see my arms too...and then it's straight back to Brandy Hall with a label of disgrace! Oh..' he sighed sadly. 

  
  


Bilbo was very worried. What was really wrong with his dear cousin? He knew of the cut on his side, of course, but he was beginning to think deeper. All these years Frodo had been very reserved; hardly had anyone seen him display emotion. He thought it best to deal with the cut first. 

  
  


They finally reached the bathroom. "Alright now, Frodo, let me see that cut."

  
  


Frodo stepped back a little, trying to appear calm and casual. "No, uncle, it's okay. I'm alright.. Just a little fall. I'm quite sorry to have frightened you."

  
  


"Nonsense, Frodo. Don't be shy. I'm not going to bite you!" He smiled a bit, reaching out for Frodo. "Now come on, take off your shirt. It's nothing I haven't seen before. Good heavens, it's only your side! Come now, Frodo, don't be stubborn, you could be hurt."

  
  


"No, uncle!" said Frodo a little louder than he intended. "It's okay. I..." he stopped. He just couldn't let Bilbo see. He would drop dead before revealing himself. He wasn't worried about the cut on his side: for Bilbo had already seen it. And he wasn't worried about if Bilbo could find out how that cut managed to be there. He was worried about the cuts all up and down his upper-arm and upper chest. Bilbo had not seen those. And if he saw the various gashes and scraps all over his upper body, he knew his uncle would certainly suspect something. 

  
  


"Frodo! Frodo please. Is there something you've to hide?"

  
  


"No. No sir, I haven't anything to hide. It's just a cut. I'll clean it out." he said, trying to sound calm again. "Please, please Uncle Bilbo, it's all right."

  
  


Bilbo sighed. What could he say? What else could he do? Surely his dear nephew would hide anything serious from him? Frodo trusted him, didn't he? He certainly did not want to anger his nephew. He decided to let Frodo deal with it. But he would certainly start keeping a closer eye on the lad. 

  
  


"Yes yes, alright Frodo, alright. You go about your business then. But I..." he stopped and shook his head. "Be ready for supper soon." 

  
  


Frodo sighed and watched sadly as his uncle walked away. But secretly he was relieved beyond words. He just couldn't have borne it if his dear Uncle Bilbo had found out. He just knew he couldn't have. 

  
  


He entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him. In front of him stood a basin of cool water and a rag. He sighed, finally able to see closely the mutilation he had bestowed upon himself. He unbuttoned his tunic, letting it drift to the floor like a feather. He looked at it. The blood had dried, though his shirt was wet from the rain. He sighed. It looked as if his anger had erupted into a snake, which had eaten its way temporarily out of his heart by swimming a river of blood. 

  
  


He now looked at his side. It looked, to him, very odd. It was finally beginning to scab over, though to him it seemed swollen. There was a white substance coming out of it as well. He shuddered, and reached for the rag. 

  
  


He dipped it in the cool water and began to rub harshly up and down his side. He bit his lip to keep from yelling, but he knew he had to wash out any chance of infection-if he didn't have one already. He soon began to argue with himself again. 

  
  


"Frodo, now you've done it. He suspects something naturally, and he's probably angry with your secrecy. Next thing you know, you'll be too much of a nuisance to deal with."

  
  


"No, no, he's not angry. How could he be? I haven't done wrong…I hope." He almost would've cried had he any emotion left in himself. All he felt was numbness, and slight shame for shunning his uncle away. What had become of him? Cuts and cuts and more cuts…that's what had become of him. He had no respect for himself anymore. 

Before long, the rag he was holding had become full of dried blood. He sighed and looked about. Bilbo had always kept spare gauze around. After all, Frodo had always been reckless when he had come down to Bag End. He looked through drawers and cabinets until he found some. Pressing it gently to his wound, he looked around, finally finding some medical tape to seal the ends with. He again was at a search. He needed a clean tunic. He stuck his head out the bathroom door, and seeing as Bilbo was not in the corridor at the moment to see his bare chest, Frodo ran to his own room and shut the door. He went to his dresser and rummaged around till he found a thick, bluish tunic. He put it on, and went to dinner.

Bilbo looked up as he saw his nephew come in. He forced a smile through his mask of worriness. "Hullo Frodo, please sit down lad. I've supper ready."

Frodo forced a smile as well, though he could not help feeling bad. "Yes, thank you uncle." He sat down, as tears pricked his eyes at last  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

---a/n: yea…it sucked…I know…drop me a line folks! 


	8. Wondering

A/N: Hey! I promised I'd try to update more, didn't I?  
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Chapter 8 Wondering   
  
The evening passed in silence. Frodo barely touched any of his dinner, his mind occupied with  
some way of getting his uncle to forget about the past events of the day. Bilbo was much the same, his  
mind too occupied with other things besides food.   
  
"Uncle Bilbo," he began slowly, his placid blue eyes slowly gazing upward at his uncle, "I'm  
sorry, about earlier tonight I mean. I'm sorry that I acted so. I supposed I was just a bit reluctant to be  
touched..."  
  
Bilbo cut in, not sure what he wanted to hear, but acknowledging Frodo's attempt at apology,  
"It's all right, Frodo my boy," said he, a smile taking his features. He couldn't think of anything else to  
say. But as he vowed to himself earlier, a closer eye he would definitely take upon his nephew.   
  
Frodo began to ponder again if his uncle was upset with him. After the events of that evening,  
he was almost sure he had done everything possible to offend dear Bilbo. Well...not everything, he  
supposed. Bilbo had dropped the case (for the moment it seemed), and that was what Frodo had been  
trying to get him to do. He sat up and looked kindly at his elderly uncle.   
  
"If you'll pardon me, Bilbo, I'd like to be excused. I suppose I'm not really all that hungry after  
tonight and all. I think I'll just head on to bed now."  
  
Bilbo sighed and smiled a little. He stood up as well and, walking to Frodo, patted him on the  
shoulder. "I think that would be very wise of you, Frodo my lad! I daresay you've had quite a time with  
yourself today."   
  
Frodo smiled wryly, and wandered down the corridor till he reached his room. He walked in and  
closed the door, going to his bed, he sat down. The soft patter of rain returned to his ears, and he  
leaned back, propping himself against the back board of his bed. It wasn't long before his own nature  
took hold of him, and he began to wonder about his life. His life since the death of his parents and his  
coming to Bag End. His mind soon wondered to one topic of thought, however. His parents' death. It  
was at this point in his musings the other part of him spoke, the part that had come to life as soon as he  
had first let blood from his skin those fateful nine years ago.  
  
"You know, Frodo, it could've have all been prevented."   
  
"It was an accident," Frodo replied, not willing to have this argument with himself yet again, "It  
couldn't of been helped! There was nothing I could have done. It was an accident, only an accident."  
  
"I suppose you haven't heard the old saying about accidents being preventable, have you  
Frodo?"  
  
Frodo's eyes pricked with tears again, a lone one trickling down his face leaving a shining trail of  
sorrow. How he missed his mother's smile! His father's gentle laugh. Wasn't he a bit old to be weeping?  
After all, he was twenty-one. But this was not an easy thing to get over. The two most important people  
in the world to him (with the exception of Bilbo) had been taken away from him. He was twelve years  
old, no less! He began to think again about how it might have been prevented. What if he had played ill,  
as he thought earlier? They surely wouldn't have left him then. Or what if he had persisted in his desire  
to go along with them? He'd be dead too, of course, be at least he wouldn't be alone. At least he'd still  
be with them.  
  
He let his tears flow steadily, yet no sound did he make. No quivering did he do. Slowly he  
reached into his pocket, which he supposedly kept the blade in, and felt around for it. His face froze in  
horror. It wasn't there. He must've left it in the woods from his escapade with it earlier. Frodo now  
trembled, his pressured emotions raging under his skin. What was he supposed to do now? He looked  
around the room, frantic. Something sharp, there must be something here. Somewhere...anywhere...  
  
"What's the matter, Frodo? Can't handle yourself again?" came the voice from within.  
  
Frodo stopped, his face twisted. This wasn't the time to be fighting. With himself, no less. He got  
so hot that he thought he was going to shout. With surprising will, however, he fought off his urge to  
yell.  
  
Sharp. Something sharp. His face was now wet with tears, yet he made no noise of sobbing, or  
of yielding to his desire to break down and cry. "There's got to be something here..." he thought. "This  
isn't happening...I mean there just has to be something. I'm such a fool! Of all things, how could I have  
forgotten it?"  
  
It was of no use to him to think about it right then. He was hurting NOW and he needed relief  
NOW. He couldn't handle this. He just couldn't. Shame overwhelmed him. Why couldn't he just be  
normal? Have a normal life..? His eyes flitted around the room, finally spotting the one thing in his room  
that might help him. Over on the stand by his bed, was a candle. He sighed, and smiled to himself. His  
eyes followed the jagged dancing of the light, and his heart leapt with morbid joy.  
  
Frodo slowly walked to the table, his hand shakily reached out and grabbed the candle, breaking  
it from the wax that had sealed it to it's plate. Blue eyes stared into the flame, becoming tranced; his  
features seemingly numb. He rolled up his sleeve and held out his cut-covered forearm. He took the  
candle and, on the top of his arm, let the tips of the fire lick his skin until he began to feel, and could  
bare it no longer. With a stifled cry he shook the candle's flame out and let it hit the floor with a  
iclack!/i He grabbed his left arm (the one he had burned) with his right hand and sank to his  
knees, deeply relieved that Bilbo had not heard him over the clattering of dishes being washed. A lone  
tear traveled down his face, silently, as he thought of the horrid creature he had become. His eyes set in  
a trance, watching over and over the moment in his life when he had pushed through the circle of  
hobbits to see none other than the dead bodies of his beloved parents, and how he ran away; far away,  
only to find himself as he didn't want to be. There was nothing else to do, except to continue his silent  
sufferage for the rest of his life as he saw it.  
  
______________________________  
A/N: ^.^ Next chappy coming soon! 


	9. Partings

Sorry that I haven't updated in a while, guys. :( Writers Block can be a bitch. Needless to say I think I'm on a roll again. But I did however come on here and read a bunch of stuff. =D If you want a really really good Frodo story, then read Emyn Muil by ainur. ^_^ I keep forgetting, but if any of you people feel the need to yell at me in person for screwing something up, my aim s/n is ejwlrh1028 ^_^ I hope you all had a nice holiday. :) Forth Eorlingas! Just a note: Yes I am aware of how Gandalf gives Frodo the Ring after Bilbo's disappearance etc. etc., but however, I'm not going to include it in my story; though bits and pieces of it will be in here (maybe not -this- chapter) because this -is- Lord of the Rings. -sigh- Long day people...don't feel like beta-reading. Shoot me why don't ya? j/p ^_^ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter 9 - Partings  
  
Frodo did not die as soon as he had wished. In fact, he continued his way of life with himself and Bilbo for many years. But even as he thought he was "healing" (in his own way and words), the eventful evening of September 22 sent his life sprialing downward once again. For it was the birthday that he and Bilbo shared. Bilbo turning one hudred and eleven (eleventy one, as Hobbits say) and Frodo's coming-of-age. ---------  
  
Frodo stretched his arms; the warm patch of dawn slowly taking his features as he woke up. The smell of bacon and eggs filled his room and soon enough he was dressed and scuttling down the corridor to the kitchen.  
  
"Well, day to you Frodo my lad! Or rather, morning to you."  
  
"Hullo Bilbo," replied Frodo, sitting down in a chair. He smiled, "I was awakened by some horrid stench coming from the kitchen and thought it might be your cooking. I came to see if you need any help ridding the house of the foul substance." He joked. They both laughed.  
  
"Of course Frodo! I wouldn't dream 'ridding the house of the foul substance' without your help!," Bilbo jested back. He brought two plates of bacon and eggs to the table.  
  
"So, Frodo, have you everything ready for tonight?" Bilbo asked, his voice filled with sly excitment.  
  
"Yes, Uncle Bilbo, everything is ready," Frodo aswered half- earnestly. He tried desperately to remember if he had everything in order, "Yes, I believe so."  
  
"Ah, that is good then. It's going to be a long night, so steady yourself!" Bilbo laughed.  
  
Frodo chuckled to himself, and it seemed to him that there was something...well...peculiar in Bilbo's tone of voice; as if he was hiding something.  
  
It was at that moment that Bilbo sat up, putting his hand in his pocket and fiddling around with something. Frodo stared for a moment, but was distracted by Bilbo's words. "Well, lad, if you will pardon me, there are some things of my own affairs that I need--that I need to take care off." And with that, Bilbo set off to lock himself up in his study. Frodo's suspicion became heavier. ---------  
  
"Oh, alright, come now! Bilbo Baggins what have you forgotten?" Bilbo questioned himself from the inside security of his study. "No," he mumbled, "no, you haven't forgotten anything, bless your old soul!" he chucked, placing his hand in his trouser pocket. He froze before he madly began to finger around. "Where?? Where is it!?" Frantically he began to open and close drawers from the desk nearby, papers flying around everywhere. "I don't understand...I-I just had it!" A change in his voice. He sounded...angry; not himself almost. Some sudden impulse sent his hand into his vest pocket, where he stopped his search and sighed in relief. "Now then..." he continued on throughout most of the day and afternoon in his study, fixing up papers and preparing some things of his own. ---------  
  
It was not long, so it seemed, that the long-awaited party of the year arrived. Almost the whole of Hobbiton was lite up in a brilliant array of blues and greens; Gandalf's fireworks, of course. And what would a hobbit party be without food and drink! Bilbo had called together what seemed like all the chefs in the four farthings. There was plenty to eat, and more than plenty to drink.  
  
The night continued on full of bliss and merrymaking; even our poor Frodo found himself in rather good company; having his own full share of dancing and singing and what not. Merry and Pippin, of course, had attended as well:  
  
"Go, Pippin, hurry up!" said an anxious Merry.  
  
"I'm going, just wait a moment, we have to wait till he's far enough away from the cart..." replied Pippin, who in turn received an eager shove from his cousin.  
  
'Which one?' he thought, sifting fireworks around by the armloads. 'Aha!, this'll do nicely.' he said, pulling out a rather large, dragon-shaped one.  
  
After a rather puzzling time; the two had managed to send a fury of frighting fireworks swooping about all the guest; scaring half of them to death. Gandalf, of course, had not been far behind (so to speak) and the hobbits paid dearly for their mischief. For they ended up with dish-duty for every...single...hobbit at the party.  
  
Let me assure you, they were occupied for quiet a while.  
  
The Speech - or perhaps the most dreaded part of a party/gathering. However; the guest at Bilbo's party had had their share of food (for the time) and were pretty much willing to sit through and listen to whatever rhyme or snippet of poetry Bilbo was going to throw at them.  
  
((A/N: please don't mind...I'm cutting the Speech short x_x))  
  
"My dear hobbits! I have called you here tonight for a purpose." A stunned look took the crowd; which Bilbo had trouble not laughing at. He continued, "I'm not going to bore you with works of literature that you probably couldn't comprehend, nor make you listen to works of my own. I have only now to tell you that I am leaving - for good." He side-glanced sadly at his cousin (or nephew rather) Frodo - whose face had already changed from an expression of merriment to an expression of wistful shock. "Goodbye" and with that, he vanished.  
  
This escapade certainly didn't bode well. Everyone there stared at where Bilbo had once stood - especially Frodo. Then at once the silence seemed to be shattered by an explosion of angry guest, questioning this, that and the other. Frodo didn't seem to hear any of it - that is until he felt a light hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" It was Sam.  
  
Frodo stood up, determined to not let Sam see how bitter he was feeling. "Oh, hullo Sam. Have you enjoyed yourself so far?" he shot a side-glance at Rosie Cotton, who, with her family, was just recovering from the "shock". He returned his gaze to  
  
Sam, half-smirking. Sam blushed and shuffled his feet. He looked up at Frodo and seemed to see right through his "mask".  
  
"Mr. Frodo, listen--" he was cut short. One of the hobbits who seemed to have had a bit much as was good for him grabbed Frodo drunkenly by the shoulder.  
  
"HOOOOOY THERE FRODO!" he laughed. "You've quite an uncle ther'! I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself! You can't believe a lot when people round ya are drunk as uh........." he mumbled and hiccuped.  
  
"Yes, Bosco, I'm sure," replied an uneasy Frodo.  
  
"Aaaaaaaaaaanyway laddie, I was just gonna be sayin that the people are rather...impatient right now and we want you to pass out sommore wine. Could you do that? That's a lad!" he patted Frodo on the shoulder, and trotted off in a zig-zag pattern.  
  
Frodo sighed, and turned around to have more wine passed out; discovering that Sam was still looking at him with a worried expression on his face. "Mr. Fro-" he began, but was cut off again by Frodo's pale hand resting on his shoulder. "I know, Sam, I'll be alright. Just enjoy yourself for the remainder of the night, all right?" Frodo replied softly, a kindly smile on his face as he ventured off into the anxious crowd.  
  
The crowd seemed quite content after Frodo had sent out the wine; he finding this a good time to head back to Bag End. It was not long before he was back in his own smial, but instead of finding solace from the racket there, he only found utter silence and lonliness. 


	10. Worst Enemy

So sorry for the delay. I just know you were all *dying* to read the next chapter. Don't worry...we're getting into some big stuff. I'm just considering how I want to end this story (not that it's nearing the end) the long way I had planned or to make a totally different fic. Anyway, here it is, folks! By the way, if you find the level of angst in this chapter a bit...much...please don't mention it in a review or flame me for it; as I am already well aware it of it. I have chronic insomnia and it is currently 3.40 in the morning. I have school in two hours.! Joy! Like I said; mega angst. Possibly very...weird...angst...so if you don't like it then fuck off. I'm not in the mood. --;  
  
---------------  
  
Chapter 10 - Worst Enemy  
  
The hours passed from early evening to late night in practically no time at all. Frodo remained inside the whole time. He could care less about the more-than-likely rumours that were going to be all over Hobbiton in the morning, or about who was to clean up the great mess that was left outside. He would let it rest till later. Right now only one thing plagued his mind. He wondered why the only person he seemed to have left in the world would leave him.  
  
"Dear Bilbo," he sighed, "...if only you could be here. Maybe I wouldn't feel so alone again."  
  
He figited constantly, his eyes flitting and shifting to places all about the kitchen; the room where he had himself currently positioned. There was not much to really see. Crumbs scattered carelessly on the sturdy breakfast table, a half eaten cheese-wheel, and the last bottle of Bilbo's Old Winyards that was perhaps one-seventh empty. He sighed; his pale features scanning the room for something more interesting to gaze at. They scanned the room once more, this time stopping on the bottle of Old Winyards. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.  
  
"I'd better not," he thought. "I don't take to it well..."  
  
"Does it matter, Frodo?" There it was again. That person...that voice. Why could it not go and leave him? But this time it seemed...different. As if it sounded like it knew how to make everything better. How to make everything okay again. ...How to make him -happy- again. "Well? Does it? Has anything mattered to you? Hmm...have -you- ever mattered to -anybody-?"  
  
"I...I don't..." he stammered; at a loss for words. He pondered what he was saying (or what seemed to be him) and stopped for a minute. Who did care about him? His parents, yes, but due to years of believing it had been his own fault they were growing further and further away from the beautiful memories they had been in his mind into something he didn't want to think about, something that would forever haunted him.  
  
"You don't...know? Of course you don't. But I do." Frodo looked over again at the wine bottle. "What could it hurt?" he persisted in a somewhat rashionate tone. "You're not a child, Frodo Baggins. It's not as though you can't take a little more than usual."  
  
Frodo considered this. After all, he wasn't a child. As a matter of fact, he had just come-of-age that very day. He made his way to the wine bottle slowly; before he stopped himself. "It probably wouldn't be very wise to do this. I should probably get some rest." He begged himself, but he was weak, so weak. He felt he had no control in his life anymore. Like everything was spiraling downward right when he started to think that it would get better.  
  
"Rest?" his more dominant half replied. "What good can rest do? You'll only wake to find yourself here again. You need to realize, Frodo, that it's as good as over for you. You have no one left; just as no one has left themselves to you. Nobody cares. They've all abandoned you, have they not?"  
  
Once again, he took this to heart. "Maybe you're right..." he said very slowly; almost as if reluctance and logic still held onto him by a thread. "Maybe they didn't want me around. Maybe that's why they died. Maybe...maybe it really was me." Silent tears pricked his eyes, but did not fall. He felt a sting at his heart; yet it did not pierce.  
  
His other half softened; Frodo's behavior much to his own liking. "Why not? I suppose it doesn't matter." He reached out, still not sure of his alcohol capacity and used both of his pale hands to pull the cork off of the bottle. It slipped with a ipop/i and hit the wall, falling harmlessly to the floor. He took the bottle from the countertop and went back the the table, sitting down. After a few moments of staring at it, he grasped it by the neck and pressed the tangy tasting rim of the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He swallowed it with an expression that most would probably find amusing. But soon a shadow of a smile was over him.  
  
"See? Not so bad, was it?" Indeed it wasn't. Or atleast it didn't seem so. He took another sip. Or swig, rather. Each longer than the last. Of course he would stop at intervals of time to let it sit, but would start right up again. And even though he was taking in rather large quantities of the wine in at a time, he made sure he didn't go too fast. He didn't want this beautiful euphoria to end so suddenly. He wanted it to last. Hopefully it would last him out; but then again he could only -hope- to be so lucky.  
  
An hour, perhaps two, had passed when Frodo realized he had nothing of the wine left. "O dear," he said with a huge grin on his face. "I think we need to turn the boat around, captain!" He laughed, sulking back in his chair. "Nah nah, surely there must be more around here..." he said, referring to the wine.  
  
Still clinging desperately to the neck of the empty bottle, Frodo stood up; only to fall flat down on his face again with a ithud/i! He laughed, and crawled to the wall and slinking up to his feet. He only managed a stagger however, as he leaned against the wall for support. Struggling to the counter where he had found the original bottle, he leaned himself upon it; trying to catch his breath. For he had found himself gasping and struggling for air. It wasn't incredibly difficult to breath, but it was something that he had to concentrate to do (which wasn't easy, I assure you). A soft laugh escaped his lips, as he let the bottle fall from his hand. It left an echoing shatter as it hit the floor. As soon as he had laughed, the tears that had built up inside him were let loose. They streamed down his cheek in silence, leaving a clear direction of water flow on his already sweat-ridden face; only noise emitted from him was a soft whisper, voice shaky with drunkeness. "I broke her, I broke her...how could I..."  
  
The Dominant smirked, but even -his- voice was full of drunken anger. "Of course you did! You knew it all along. They never wanted you. Needed you. You're only here because of an accident; just as an accident took there lives! Or was it an accident, Frodo? Maybe it was -you-!"  
  
"No," he whispered, "they loved me. They loved me.."  
  
"That's what you want to belie--" he was cut off by himself.  
  
"NO!" Fury rang in him as he looked for something to let out his anger. Too much. He couldn't bear to hear this. Hear his worst fears being told by none other than himself. He looked up at the small semi-circular window above the kitchen sink. It was open, allowing the soft night air to come in. Lined along the sill were three small gardening pots; beautiful and clean on the outside, but laden with filth and dirt on the inside. Exactly what Frodo perceived himself as. With one hand clutching the counter's edge to keep balance, the other hand shot rapidly to one of the small clay pots. With no thought to what he was doing he threw it quickly against the nearest wall, letting dirt and sharp pieces that once held the foundations of life fall to the floor. Buried amidst them was a small, white seed.  
  
Silence. Too much. He sank to his hands and knees and let the quiet sobs wrack him. Soon he looked up; and crawled over to the opposite end of the room, where the mess lay. He propped himself against the wall, amidst the rubble of dirt and sharp pottery and such, and unbottoned his shirt. Hot. So hot... He could hardly breath. His face was red, and his curly brown locks were plastered to his brow and the back of his neck. Tears still came freely as his eyes met the mess. "I broke her...broke her..." he sobbed, slamming his fist to the ground. He stood up on his knees, and gingerly picked up a clay shard covered in dirt. "I broke her..." he whispered again, eyes clenched shut. He dug the piece deep into his left side. He let more tears come down. Too drunk to catch himself, he quickly pulled his hand over, the shard cutting deeply into his middle; making a large gash. It felt so good...yet hurt so bad. That's exactly what he felt he deserved. Gasping, he fell onto his side, arm flung over his head, and blood flowing freely from his stomach.  
  
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A/N: X) cliffhanger... 


	11. Secret Shame

A/N: Well, I'm back. I *know* you all missed me, didn't you? haha! Anyway, things are a bit better and I couldn't help but feel like an ass leaving out you out there with nothing of mine to read! -gasp!- j/p, anyway, here goes.  
  
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Chapter 11 - Secret Shame  
  
Despite what had happened the previous night, the sun rose in the Shire as it had always planned to. The air was fresh with the sweet scent of the autumn, and the ground was kissed with the soft light of the early sun. Sam Gamgee closed the door to his small, yet quaint, hobbit-hole; off- key whistles leaving his lips. He rolled up his sleeves as he headed up the path to Bag End. The winter was approaching, much to his dismay, and he figured he better set his poor garden to rites before the oncoming cold. There was, however, another thought that plagued his slow, yet shrewd, mind. He sighed.  
  
"Poor Mr. Frodo," he mumbled to himself. "This must be awful hard for him, after all he's been through. And my poor garden! All my hard work just to be eaten away by cold and frost!"  
  
He made his way up the Hill and into the little section of the garden he always favoured to start his work in. After maybe half an hour or so of weeding, Sam stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches. Half-smiling, he looked toward the window sill where he had put the clay pots (figuring he should put the seedlings in the ground before the cold came so they could blossom in the spring), when he almost immediately noticed one was missing. "How odd..." He walked over to investigate. As he peeked through the window, he saw something that shocked and numbed him. On the usually clean kitchen floor of the ever-proper Bag End, there were shards of glass, it seemed, scattered all over the ground. As he eyes shifted he choked at the sight of broken pieces of his clay pot scattered all about the upper end of the corridor-like room. One thing danced out in his mind. What had happened to Bag End, or more frightening, the kindly hobbit that now lived there?  
  
Not another moment spent pondering, Sam automatically assumed that someone had broken in, though who it was he could not guess. He ran quickly around the smial to the round green door and gave it a push. "Just my luck," he mumbled, "locked." He stopped for a moment. If it was locked, then how could someone have broken in? It didn't matter at the time, Frodo might be hurt, and that was all he could think about. He pounded on the door with all the strength he had, "Frodo? Mr. Frodo? Are you in there?" He waited for a moment...nothing. "Of course he's in there, Sam you ninnyhammer! He's not answering, and that's the problem." He pressed his ear to the door and listened again; all seemed quiet...too quiet.  
  
"Oh dear," he mumbled, starting to panic. The window, perhaps? No, no. Much too small for him. He signed, anxiety eating at him. "Here goes.." he gave the door a hard, rough shove, thrusting himself against it. With a snick, the door slowly swung open. Sam spent no more time pondering his luck, but instead began to walk up the hall. "Frodo? Mr. Frodo, sir?" It was not long before his search was completed. He stared in horror at the sight before him.  
  
There was his dear master; kind Mr. Frodo, lying on the floor half- soaked in his own blood, a large gash spanning over his stomach. All around him lay broken shards of clay and glass. Sam's eyes watered and he wasted not another second before running to Frodo and kneeling next to him. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "What happened...what happened to you?" He gently ran his fingers along the gash, and to his relief, heard Frodo moan.  
  
"Frodo! Mr. Frodo," Sam began, taking his master's hand. "Can you hear me? Are you alright? What happened?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yes, hello dear Sam," said Frodo in a low voice, almost a harsh whisper. He slowly opened his eyes about half-way, letting them gently sweep the room.  
  
"Mr. Frodo! What happened?" He reiterated. "Your poor belly..." Sam choked back his tears. "Who did this to you?"  
  
"I... I don't," he stammered, confused and afraid that Sam would find out. He was relieved that the upper portion of his tunic remained buttoned. "I'm not quite sure..." he said with his voice trailing off, dazed and unfocused. He winced as the memories of the previous night came back to him, and he inwardly cursed his idiocy and foolishness. Now look at the mess he was in!  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam inquired, gently squeezing Frodo's hand to make sure his master still knew he was there. With his free hand, he gently brushed the damp curls away from Frodo's brow and looked into the placid pools of deep blue, which seemed to him shadowed with an unexplainable sadness.  
  
Hearing Sam's voice Frodo snapped back to reality. "Yes, Sam dear, I'm quite alright. Worry you not, I just had a bit of an accident, dropping one of Bilbo's old bottles of wine. You know how clumsy I can be." He forced a smile, the pain in his stomach almost too much to bear; it felt as if emotion were clawing at him from the inside out. Yet he felt strangely relieved that he was letting it go, letting it run free.  
  
Sam looked bewildered. How could dropping a wine glass on the ground result in a large gash right across Frodo's middle? Something wasn't right.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, I think you're a bit out of it..." Sam said softly. "But ah! You're a mess. Let me help you up, sir, and have a look at your belly."  
  
As if struck by lightening Frodo turned his head quickly to Sam, stuttering. "Sam... Sam I promise you I'm fine. I just need..." he suppressed a wince, "just need a rest. Go along now! I'm all right." Another surge of pain through his middle. Frodo moved his free hand so it lay gently atop his stomach, clutching it gently. Sam was not so easily convinced after seeing this.  
  
"By all means, sir, and meaning no disrespect but you're anything but all right! Come now, let me help you up." Sam gently slid a sturdy hand under Frodo's torso and lifted him to a sitting position. He couldn't help but notice how Frodo was damp with sweat and smelled strangely of alcohol. Frodo definitely was *not* all right! And he would see to it that he was taken care of. With the strength he had left, he lifted the some-what-still intoxicated hobbit and looked for a place to set him down, selecting a soft couch-like piece of furniture.  
  
Frodo, still very tired and sick from his hangover, was beginning to close his eyes. He knew he was in good hands with Sam watching over him through this, but as he slipped off to sleep, all his dark secrets slipped off too, and he had forgotten the most important element of his hidden shame; secrecy.  
  
Sam looked hard at his master, tears still threatening his caring eyes. "Oh, I wish you would tell me what happened, Mr. Frodo," he said to himself, going off and coming back quickly with a medium-sized bowl of warm water and a cloth. He knelt by Frodo and, taking one last sad look at his master, dipped the cloth into water and gently began rubbing the dried blood off of Frodo's belly and gently getting the dirt and clay and glass and what-not out of the wound. After a fair amount of debris was cleared, Sam was shocked to see how deep the cut was. This was most certainly not the work of a glass shard.  
  
Carefully, so as not to wake Frodo, Sam stood up and admired the now clean wound. Logically, he decided that some gauze and maybe a shirt-change would do Frodo good, or at least help to get the smell of sweat and alcohol out of his way. He carefully guided himself through the plethora of mess on the floor to Frodo's bedroom. Opening the bureau of drawers before him he began to dig around for a clean shirt; and to his surprise found something else. Inside the drawer, at the bottom and towards the back, was small piece of a rusted blade; looking like it was possibly from an old knife or something of the sort. He stood stunned; but was deprived of time to investigate. He had heard, or thought he had heard, a low moan emitted from Frodo. Taking the shirt he quickly went out of the room, getting some gauze from another drawer where he knew Bilbo had kept things of that sort.  
  
"Coming, Mr. Frodo, sir, I'm coming," he said, still trying to piece all these riddles together so that they made some sense. When he reached the main room, it became quite obvious that Frodo was awake. There he lay, his eyes opening at the sound of Sam's voice.  
  
"Sam? What's going on? What are you doing with my shirt?"  
  
"Hold still now, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, worry melting over his voice like butter over hot bread. Carefully, he wrapped Frodo's middle with the gauze until all the wound was covered. "I hate to ask you to sit up, Mr. Frodo, but I've got to change you're shirt! I'm sure you're rather uncomfortable."  
  
Frodo started where he lay. "N-No Sam, that won't be necessary! I told you I'm quite all right. But thank you for tending to me; curse my clumsiness causing you such a bother!" He managed to say. He was in a rather hopeless situation. He obviously couldn't leap to his feet and bolt away, and he couldn't rely on his cuts healing. Some of them he had made were so deep that there was still scar tissue, others were fresh and new and others were no more than a mass of milky white stripes all over his upper chest and both of his forearms. But what would Sam think?  
  
"Nonsense, Mr. Frodo," Sam's heart was about to break. Frodo, one of the friends he had had ever since he was a young hobbit, was obviously hiding something from him. Sam wondered if Frodo knew that he would always be there for him to talk to if he needed it... But something else plagued him. It was now very obvious that Frodo had some harmful secret, and Sam was now determined to find out what it was. A small piece of broken glass from a wine bottle leaping up and making a long deep gash, ripping through clothing, far into Frodo's skin? The knife in his dresser? Sam wasn't nosy, just downright worried.  
  
Frodo clutched at his shirt; and try as he did, he still looked rather conspicuous. His face turned bright red, and he felt despair raging in him. If he was found, what would Sam think? What would Frodo himself ever do without Sam? With a staggering whisper, he only managed to say "No, Sam, please..."  
  
Sam looked sadly at Frodo and the expression on his face and how he held his shirt shut. Gently he took Frodo's hands and lowered them from his torso, and slowly unbuttoned his master's tunic. What he saw would remain with him for the rest of his life. A series of cuts and scars lined all up and down and across his master's chest. Some old, some new, some left painful scars, and some vanished without a physical mark. There were so many that Sam lost count.  
  
"Sam... I-I'm..." Frodo began, but he didn't know what to say. He waited for Sam to tell him how terrible he was for resorting to such things. How could he expect Sam to understand. And honestly enough, Sam didn't understand and the silent tears riding down his cheek showed it. But out of the beauty of his pure heart of friendship, Sam only took Frodo's hand comfortingly in his and looked into Frodo's shadow-ridden blue eyes.  
  
------------------ A/N: Cliff-hanger ^_^ 


End file.
